In a new book, Stephen Hawking argues that God didn't create the world. He explains what he calls the M-theory, posits 11 space-time dimensions, and in general gets into some really deep shit that we will never understand because while Stephen Hawking's brain is a Lamborghini screaming down the autobahn of deep thought, ours is a rusted-out Ford Pinto backfiring in an Arby's parking lot in Schmucketawney Falls, Pennsylvania. Our brain doesn't do deep thoughts. It seeps antifreeze, produces wreathes of oily black smoke, and farts along, when it farts at all, in the slow lane of cogitation, as third graders and your more clever house pets blow it by. James Taylor once sang that he was going to Carolina in his mind. Our mind wouldn't make it that far. It would end up on the shoulder of the highway in nothern Virginia, with steam pouring from the hood. So we don't have an opinion on Hawking or his theory. It's enough for us that when we turned the ignition of our mind this morning, our ass didn't burst into flames.